Darkness Looking Back, The (18 page)

'What's
that
supposed to mean?'

'Are you up to it, Ray?' Nielsen gave him a challenging look.

'It's not a case of not being up to it,' Gardner flung back.

'Right, then. You'd better start acting like a team.'

'You like Kevin Spacey, Vicky,' Kirkpatrick put in with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. 'There's a similar hairstyle . . . Ray's quite a bit like him actually.'

Stirling pressed his lips together and focused on a corner of the desk, desperately trying to force his mind to go blank.

Rees nodded. 'Was that as the hitman, the serial killer or the guy who wanked in the shower?'

This time Stirling lost it. Nielsen couldn't help giggling too, and once she started she couldn't stop, until she was hunched over and gasping for air. The others were almost as bad.

'Get the fuck out of here, Tony.' Gardner's scowl was dangerous.

'Hey, Spacey played a detective sergeant in
LA Confidential
,' said Kirkpatrick. 'That's what I was thinking of.'

'Speaking of which, if you want to do any detecting, you'd better get yourselves over to the café,' said Woodward. He turned a critical eye on Nielsen. 'Vicky, go get a bit of lipstick on, get yourself a bit tarted up. Not over the top — use your discretion. If you want to buy some new clothes, charge it back to us later. Can you be back here in—' he looked at his watch — 'half an hour? I want you in place when Ciaran and Andy arrive.'

'Best be off then.' Nielsen scraped back her chair and promptly left.

If Nielsen pulled this off, Stirling thought, she'd deserve a medal. Romancing Gardner was well above and beyond the call of duty. If she had to actually kiss the man she deserved hazard pay.

DESPITE A SNEAKING desire to see his superior dressed up like a hooker, Stirling knew he was bound to be disappointed. As usual, Nielsen had taken the sensible middle ground, keeping the white blouse she'd had on, and her hair was its usual shoulder-length dark blonde. Her sole purchases were a designer skirt that came down to the knee and a cheap pair of very low heels. A necklace she'd borrowed and a dash of lipstick, and that was as sexy as it got. Stirling suspected she wasn't quite as prudish as it looked. If he were a female working opposite Gardner, there was no way he'd be wearing a miniskirt and a low-cut top either. Nor if he were trying to attract the attention of a killer who hadn't slipped up yet.

When Stirling walked into the café, followed by Paynter, he couldn't help vaguely scanning the interior as if pretending to look for Wong. There weren't many full tables, he noticed. The novelty value of dining in Death's café had worn off. Many a woman who'd done nothing more than eye up a picture of Johnny Depp would be keeping away until this was over.

A burst of laughter drew his attention to one corner, and he saw them. Nielsen looked greatly amused by something Gardner was saying; only those who knew her would realise that the bubbliness was overdone. For
his
part, he actually seemed to be enjoying it.
Loves the sound of his own voice so much he thinks it's bloody Christmas
, thought Stirling.

'Well I never,' Paynter murmured, his eyes fitting to another table.

'Mr Stirling.' Arthur Wong stood in between the food cabinets and the cash register. He nodded sideways, towards the back room. 'Shall we talk in here?'

The office was a mere cubicle, with a set of plywood shelves, a stack of four sacks piled up in a corner and two scruffy chairs, one of which Wong pulled out from behind the small desk. As soon as he shut the door behind them Wong gestured them to seats and fixed his eyes on Stirling, crossing his arms. The genial little man from the other day was entirely gone.

'As I said to you on the phone this morning, I'm very disappointed. I understood your investigations were being conducted in the strictest confidence.'

'Have you noticed a drop in customers today, Mr Wong?' asked Paynter.

'As a matter of fact I have. I thought you had more integrity.'

'I apologise for that, Mr Wong, but I believe DC Stirling's already told you it's not intentional. Whoever leaked this information is being hunted out and will be dealt with, I assure you.

'By the way . . .' Paynter rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. 'Doesn't this whole thing disturb you? Apparently you have a killer stalking your café. At least this way people are being warned.'

'Of course it disturbs me! I even thought about shutting down. But that's not the point. The point is that I trusted Mr Stirling not to reveal the name of my café to the public, and he, or someone else, has. That makes it very hard for me to trust you.'

Stirling had to grit his teeth at that point. The hypocrisy in the room was choking.

'And what about you, Mr Wong?' said Paynter. 'How do we know we can take you at face value? Can I ask why you didn't shut down?'

'What are you suggesting?'

Paynter let his silence speak for itself. Wong darted a glance at Stirling, who still hadn't said a word. After a moment he gave a sigh that filled the room.

'You think I could be the killer? Because it's my café? Why the hell would I do something like that? Just because I have a yellow face doesn't mean I'm a Triad, you know.'

'It'll be easy enough to rule you out, Mr Wong. Undoubtedly your wife could tell us where you were when these killings happened.'

Wong gave an impatient shake of his head. 'I don't have a wife. Not any more. She's back in Malaysia.'

'You're divorced?'

Now Wong paused. 'Not exactly.' He realised what he'd been led into saying.

Whoops. There it is . . .

'Have any of these women been in to the café?'

Paynter pulled another deck of photos from a brown envelope, fanning them out on the table. Stirling barely recognised a mugshot of Shannon Lawrence. With a face.

Wong's eyes shifted again to Stirling, who was watching him intently. Wong's own expression was unreadable. 'I don't think I'd better say anything without a lawyer. I'm entitled to have one present.'

'That's your call, Mr Wong. That'll be all for now anyway. We'd best be going, I think.'

Paynter started to rise from his chair, with an audible creak.

Wong looked at Stirling, who was doing the same. 'At least you know where to look, don't you?' he said suddenly, his voice cold. 'You're blaming
me
for not closing down, when you don't want it either. It's making your job easy, isn't it?

All you need to do is watch whoever's in the café. The more people who die the better, because it gives you more clues.'

'I wouldn't call collecting dead bodies easy,' said Paynter.

Arthur ignored him, still looking at Stirling. '
You
haven't said anything. Why did you even bother coming? Hoping I'd give you more cake?'

'I'm watching my weight, Arthur.' Stirling turned his back.

As he began to walk from the café, he noticed the young woman, Lauren, beckoning to him frantically from a corner. Intrigued, Stirling headed towards her, with a glance at Paynter to follow.

'Hey!' She murmured at them, trying not to make it too obvious. 'That's the guy I was telling you about. The creepy one.'

Stirling and Paynter twisted their heads to look. Sitting alone at a table was a pale, stocky man in a T-shirt. He was engrossed in a ratty women's gossip mag that looked like it came from the café.

'He's always in here,' Lauren said. 'It's like he doesn't have a life.'

'What kind of things does he do?' Paynter asked.

'Well, he does look at people. I think he probably eavesdrops on them. I've seen him crack up laughing at the same time as other people, so it's pretty obvious. Sometimes he doesn't even have a magazine — he just sits there.'

'You haven't seen him follow people out of the café, anything like that?'

'No,' she admitted, with clear reluctance. 'But he's always talking to
me
. He just drones on and on — I have to pretend to be interested, because he's a customer, but he's just
dodgy
.'

'Being lonely isn't a crime, unfortunately,' Paynter said. 'But I'll have a chat with him. You never know. We'll have to talk to everyone in here.'

Stirling watched as Paynter went over to the man's table, pulling out his exercise book. The man seemed surprised, but on the whole delighted to be distracted from his magazine. Judging from his manner, he couldn't have been more eager to please. It was probably pointless, but Stirling noticed Arthur watching the interview closely from behind the counter. If it put the wind up him, then well and good.

'How about your boss?' he asked Lauren casually. 'How's he been taking all of this?'

'It's really stressing him out. He's not been himself, lately, eh? Usually he's always smiley and joking a lot, but I think this has him spooked. Can't say I blame him. I mean, there's a murderer coming to this café.' Lauren didn't look so perky now. 'I don't want to work here any more, but it's been the ideal job.'

'Have you noticed Arthur talking to the customers — including the people who died?'

No matter how he phrased that, it was always going to sound suspicious. Lauren frowned harder. Then Nathan passed with his hands full of coffee cups. 'Hi, Mr Stirling! We've got orange and almond cake today. Want some?'

Stirling met Arthur's eye. 'Better not today, thanks, Nathan.'

Nathan's smile vanished as he saw the look on Stirling's and Lauren's faces. 'Hey, what's wrong?'

'He thinks Arthur might be the killer!' said Lauren incredulously. 'There's just no way; he's friendly to
everyone
!'

Nathan looked at Stirling, astonished. '
Arthur
? You might as well pick me, or Lauren, or Morgan. We're in the café almost as often.'

'Exactly!' Lauren said. 'Except Nathan's been with his girlfriend for the past four years, and I faint at the sight of blood, and Morgan is, like, this really staunch Christian . . .'

Stirling fought the urge to roll his eyes.

'But whoever it
is
, I hope you find them soon,' Nathan said helplessly. 'I'm getting really paranoid — I'm always positive he's in here. I'm so glad Tessa's in London.' He glanced at Lauren. 'I've just bought my plane ticket,' he admitted.

'My parents keep telling me to quit,' said Lauren unhappily.

When they'd both cleared off, Stirling noticed Paynter had finished with the dodgy man, and was chatting to a couple of women who looked like colleagues on their coffee break, jotting down names and numbers and whether the customers had seen anyone or anything suspicious. The usual donkey work — as Paynter said, sometimes you got lucky. On Stirling's side, there were only Nielsen and Gardner. Gardner was still talking. Nielsen's eyes were slightly glazed, but at least it could have passed for something else.

'Excuse me,' he said politely, showing his badge. 'My name is Detective Constable Andy Stirling. I'm investigating the murders of several women who were patrons of this café. I don't know if you've been following the news?'

Gardner frowned up at him, with the same fuck-off expression Stirling had seen on so many teenagers. 'Yeah, I've seen it.'

'Was it
this
café, then?' Nielsen interjected, realising it was all part of the show. Stirling also thought she looked a little relieved.

'Have you been here before?'

'No. But if this is the murder café, we'll have to come back. I'd love to catch the killer.' Nielsen flashed Stirling a dazzling smile. 'Eh, Ray?'

Stirling tried not to laugh. 'Here's my card. Let me know if you see anything.'

A text message came through on Nielsen's phone, startling them.

'I'll let you know when I've solved the murder for you,' Gardner said, sticking the card under his saucer.

Stirling kept the smile on his face. 'Just leave all the dangerous stuff to those who can handle it — won't you, sir? Don't do anything stupid.'

Nielsen deleted her message. 'It's my husband,' she announced, with a disparaging smirk. She pressed the call button. 'Hi honey, how are you? I'm just having lunch with Jenny.' She met Gardner's eye and gave him a flirtatious grin.

Stirling smothered another laugh. Unless that was Woodward or Kirkpatrick on the other line, someone was going to be extremely confused.

Paynter was waiting by the car.

'How did it go with that guy?' Stirling asked him.

'Believe it or not, he said he was home with his wife for all the murders.'

'He's
married
?'

'Yep. According to him, they run a business from home. He sells computer parts, she sells New Age stuff over the internet. On the nights in question, he and his wife were home watching DVDs. Apparently he's writing a fantasy novel as well — the café is where he goes to study dialogue.'

Stirling snorted with laughter. 'Well, that explains a lot, anyway.' He got into the passenger's seat.

A text message sounded from Paynter's pocket as he got in beside Stirling. He checked his phone, and smiled. 'Did you notice Vicky got a message when you were in there?'

'That was
you
?'

'Thought I'd help them out a little . . . The husband had to come into it somehow. I suggested Vicky give him a call.' Paynter looked down at his phone again. 'I asked her how she's enjoying her one-on-one time with Ray.'

He held out his phone, with Nielsen's text message still lit on the screen.

IF THE KILLER DOESN'T SHOW UP, I'M KILLING MYSELF.

COLEMAN WASN'T HAVING the best morning. Like Gardner and Stirling, he'd been hauled out of bed for the morning shift after the horror of last night. After his first ever taste of being in charge of the body, he was itching to pour mouthwash through his ears. Or at least sleep. He'd come straight from the morgue to CIB, which struck him as eerily similar. Most people seemed to be on the road, leaving their desks quiet and empty. It was almost a relief when Rees corralled him. Left to his own devices, with no one to talk to, he'd have gone straight to sleep.

They had a shopping list of suspects to tick off on their rounds.

'The banker, the baker, the record-rotator . . .' Rees mused as he waited for the roller doors to let them out. 'Like a bad joke.'

'They use CDs now, Tony,' said Coleman, his eyes shut.

'Who cares? What I want to know is, how come we have to go to people's offices and they get a cushy café? What did I do?'

Coleman grunted sleepily. 'I spent last night in a public toilet
and at the morgue.' 'Was that on or off duty?' 'Up yours, sir.'

CHARLOTTE'S EX-LOVER WAS first. He'd got himself another job now, but it was a bit of a comedown for a one-time corporate banker. When Coleman and Rees walked in to the combined post office and Kiwibank, he was standing behind the counter, selling a young couple stamps for a postcard to Britain. As soon as he laid eyes on the policemen, Stuart Fletcher's face went blank for a second. He waited until the couple were well away before speaking.

'It's not really the best time right now . . .'

'Sorry, Mr Fletcher — won't take a minute. Could we go into your office?'

Fletcher gave a suffering glance towards his two colleagues, who were both busy serving. 'It really can't be any more than a few minutes.'

He came around the counter and opened the door to a tiny glass office, with blinds all down the side. Looking like he was tempted not to, he left them open. He spread his hands wide on the desk as Rees and Coleman sat wearily in the customers' chairs.

'Now, what else can I possibly tell you?'

Coleman ostentatiously flipped open an exercise book on his lap, clicking his pen down. In the five-second pause, Rees examined the man's face, especially the reddened skin on his nose and around his eyes. His shirt was crisp, his hair tidy, but he needed a drink.

'Tell us again about Charlotte. You loved her?'

'At one time I think I did. Now, of course, I know what she was like.'

'What was she like, Mr Fletcher?'

'I don't think you need me to tell you. I wasn't the only man in her life, was I? Not even the only
other
man.'

'So you don't miss her?'

'No. She was out of my life long before she died.'

'You didn't miss her even then?'

'I got over it.'

'About two days after she was murdered, was it?'

'Eh?'

'You went to the café. You were seen. The same day Helen McCowan was killed.'

Fletcher looked trapped.

'You knew Helen, I hear,' added Coleman. 'Like to tell us where you were the night she was killed?'

'I don't remember! I was drunk. But I woke up in my motel room, and there's no way I was in a ft state to do anything to anybody. How could I? Helen McCowan was killed in her home — I don't even know where that is.'

'That's what you told the last pair of detectives. Except you told them you were drunk and incapacitated for
three days
after Charlotte was killed. Never went anywhere, you said. You didn't tell them about your trip to the café.'

Fletcher steepled his hands together on the desk, then touched them to his nose. 'I thought it would sound . . .'

'Incriminating?'

Fletcher breathed out through his nose. 'I wanted to say goodbye. It doesn't really make sense when you say it out loud. I kind of thought — go to this place, see that it's not magical, it doesn't mean anything to you any more. Just let it go, leave all of the bad stuff behind.' He bowed his head. 'I was drunk. Even at that time of day.'

Rees nodded. 'What about the following night, then? When you left the motel?'

The look Fletcher gave them was wary, and just a little frightened. 'What are you talking about?'

'Because witnesses say you did.'

The banker's complexion went grey, tinged kiwifruit green by the decor. He looked back and forth between both of them, surprised and really unsettled now. 'I don't remember.'

'Are you sure about that?'

Fletcher shut his eyes tightly. He did the same gesture with his hands: it almost looked like he was praying, or diving. 'I have blackouts,' he said at last. 'I can't remember where I was or what I did. All I remember is that I woke up back at the motel. But that doesn't make me a murderer!'

'Did you take your own car?' asked Rees.

Fletcher silently shook his head. 'Must have got on the bus. Didn't have a car then.'

'That's good to hear.' Rees paused. Fletcher seemed to be telling the truth so far. 'Can you say for sure you didn't murder Helen McCowan, as well as Charlotte? What if you were too drunk to remember? You might have caught the bus, or a taxi.'

Fletcher looked up at them, his brow furrowed. He'd finally lost his temper. 'Does that sound likely to you? If I was so dead drunk I couldn't remember, I somehow fagged down not one but
two
buses to the correct addresses — one of which I didn't even know —
plus
I got home again, and managed to conceal any bloody weapons or clothing I had on me?'

'You could have thrown the weapons away, taken a change of clothes. You could have followed Helen home previously or obtained her address some other way.'

Fletcher closed his eyes again, then looked at the desktop. 'Maybe I was in a drunken rage against Charlotte, or that poor English lady. Maybe I had a secret grudge against both of them for screwing more than one man. But I was cheating too! How on earth does that make sense? If I had something against evil homewreckers, why the hell didn't I turn a gun on myself?'

Coleman and Rees exchanged glances. Someone rapped on the glass partition, making them all jump. The door opened, and an Indian woman peered round.

'Stuart? There's another customer to see you when you're finished. Sorry to interrupt.' She gave them all a brisk smile, then closed the door softly.

Rees's mind went back to what Fletcher had just said. He had a point — there didn't seem much sense in attacking someone else for behaving the same way you did.

'And as for Alicia Schofield, I don't even know what she looks like.'

'You might have seen her when you were there last,' said Coleman, but there was no force behind the punch.

'Possibly I did, but I wouldn't remember.' Fletcher's voice
sounded smooth, but self-loathing seeped through the cracks.

'IT'S ALL THE effing around that started this mess. And now we're still doing it,' said Rees.

Coleman grunted. He waited until the shopfronts were sliding past the car window before he said, 'I'll admit, he doesn't seem like the killer. But how do you
know
?'

Rees sighed. 'True story, Sean,' he said. 'It was about my third or fourth year on the job, and we were down at the local Farmers, in Papakura, seeing to some fourteen-year-old who'd been shoplifting. My sergeant and I were walking back through the store with this kid, looking at the displays a bit — it was Christmas — and we went past the Christmas shop.' Rees wore a slight smile. 'There was a guy in a Santa suit, little kids on his knee, and I was just wondering what it'd be like to have
his
job, when he looked up and spotted us. Our eyes made contact — the whole eyes-meeting-across-a-crowded-room scenario — and I recognised him. Beard and all. We had a warrant on him for armed robbery.'

'Oh no, Tony. I'm not believing this one.'

Rees just gave a dry chuckle. 'He knew
I
knew who he was, and the two of us froze. I didn't know
what
the hell to do. I wasn't going to arrest Santa! My sergeant hadn't even noticed. I've just turned my head towards him, started to say something, then our guy panics.
Throws
this little boy off his lap and makes a run for it. Only problem is, he's in this grotto thing. It's an enclosed area, and the only way out's through the front. Without even thinking I block him off and do a rugby tackle — guy must have been about half my size without the pillow down his front — and bring him down, and then because he's struggling, my sergeant comes running over and he's just yelling and whaling away at him, really giving it to him, and all these little kids are screaming and crying.' Rees shook his head. 'We get the cuffs on him and start dragging him away, and all these parents are giving us the evils and the kids are screaming at us to leave Santa alone, and the shoplifter's legged it while we were busy . . . I tell you, my face must have been about as red as that Santa suit.'

Coleman was half laughing, trying to spot the tell. 'You saw that on TV!'

Rees gave another grim laugh. 'I wish I had, Sean. It was the most embarrassing day of my life.'

Now Coleman burst out laughing. 'You arrested
Santa
?'

'Hey, I heard of one bloke in Manukau who brought in Ronald McDonald.'

Coleman laughed harder.

Rees stopped at the lights. 'But the point I'm making is you can't always tell what a person's like from the outside. You ask me, they're all bloomin' murderers.'